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Acta Univ. Sapientiae, Film and Media Studies, 9 (2014) 77–106
V-v-Vertov R-r-Re-made
From Avant-garde Documentary to Participatory
Culture: the Digital Journey of Man with a Movie Camera
Peter Ole Pedersen, Jan Løhmann Stephensen
Aarhus University (Denmark)
E-mails: [email protected], [email protected]
Abstract. The seminal work of pioneering avant-garde filmmaker Dziga Vertov,
The Man with the Movie Camera (Chevolek s kino-apparatom, 1929) has given
rise to a number of discussions about the documentary film genre and new
digital media. By way of comparison with American artist Perry Bard’s online
movie project entitled Man With a Movie Camera: The Global Remake (2007),
this article investigates the historical perspective of this visionary depiction of
reality and its impact on the heralded participatory culture of contemporary
digital media, which can be traced back to Russian Constructivism. Through
critical analysis of the relation between Vertov’s manifest declarations about the
film medium and his resulting cinematic vision, Bard’s project and the work of
her chief theoretical inspiration Lev Manovich are examined in the perspective
of “remake culture,” participatory authorship and the development a
documentary film language. In addition to this, possible trajectories from Vertov
and his contemporary Constructivists to recent theories of “new materialism”
and the notion of Man/Machine-co-operation is discussed in length.
Keywords: online documentary, participatory culture, digital culture,
Russian Constructivism, film history, new materialism.
Vertov would likely declare a death sentence on the theatricality of
imagining any reconstruction as the last word. He would insist upon the
revolution in reality, the future improvements of the past, made possible
– and visible and audible – as only the machine could make them.
Seth Feldman imagining the content of a contemporary
manifesto written by Vertov (2007, 46.)
Introduction: Vertov and Bard
Dziga Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929) is as an inevitable work within the
history of avant-garde cinema. There are a number of reasons why this 68 minute long
portrayal of urban Soviet life has been celebrated and echoed through subsequent
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films, filmic movements, and theoretical practices. One of the most obvious and
exemplified is the film’s creation of an impressive and downright overwhelming
vocabulary of formalistic innovations and creative recording methods. In a historical
perspective, it is the combination of these film technical experiments with a specific
ideology and a pronounced artist manifesto that has made Man with a Movie Camera
a work of art, which has had a radical impact that reaches far beyond the traditional
confines of cinema and into the workings of today’s broader media landscape –
at least according to some commentators and among these perhaps most notably
software theoretician Lev Manovich, whose writings about Vertov’s work, on a
number of different levels, will be of crucial interest to the present article.
A reflection of this technical – and perhaps also socio-cultural – breakthrough in
Vertov’s film filtered through Manovich’s analysis (2001) serves as the central point
of departure for a study of the participatory online film Man with a Movie Camera:
The Global Remake (http://dziga.perrybard.net). This project was initiated by
American artist Perry Bard in 2007. As the title suggests, it is a reworking of Dziga
Vertov’s iconic film, but it is also concretely inspired by aforementioned Manovich’s
reading of Vertov’s film, in which he in details sketches the lineage between Vertov’s
project and the so-called “language of new media” of contemporary digital culture.
The net-based version of Bard’s radical take on the documentary film consists of
visual material uploaded by users and fitted into Vertov’s original temporal framework,
double-screened online next to the original. This is all done automatically by a piece
of software commissioned by Bard and developed by John Weir specifically for this
work. By means of an algorithm, random recordings are picked from a continuously
updated, user-generated database of contemporary footage [Fig. 1–2].
As the premise for our investigations, we will consider this aspect of Bard’s
remake to be the comparable equivalent to the privileged and complex position
of the post-productive process of editing in Vertov’s original. In both works, it is
in fact a combination of the access to the world granted through the recording
device (or in Bard’s case the ubiquitously present recording devices) combined
with the technological restructuring of this material that creates the basis for a
fundamental reinterpretation of the medium, its social function and its potential
as a common, linguistic expression.
However, as a remake, Bard’s project is seemingly marked by a double ambition
concerning Vertov’s classic work. On the one hand, Bard attempts to make Vertov
contemporary, that is, to bring the original up to speed with the “present level of
development” of media (Benjamin 2008b, 90).1 On the other hand, it is, of course,
1
The fact that Bard’s project won an honorary mention in the Digital Communities
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also an homage to Vertov, which, at least potentially, occasions the project with a
somewhat retrospective aspect. As Vertov’s work, Bard’s remake was also made
for public screenings. In this sense, as we will argue below, Bard’s project echoes
some of Walter Benjamin’s thoughts on cinema and the movie theatre of especially
the 1920s – perhaps concretely inspired by Vertov’s depiction of the cinemagoers as a crowd? – as sites of “simultaneous collective experience” (2008b, 36)
or “communal viewing” (Feldman 2010). Here the “masses come face to face
with themselves” (Benjamin 2008a, 54) in a double sense: they can experience
themselves depicted as a crowd in ways previous media could not (especially due
to innovative experiments with camera angles and the composition of the shot);
and they can experience this as a crowd, that is, together. Yet, as we will discuss,
there is also another aspect of both experienced and practiced collectivity at stake
in both projects (although in Vertov’s mostly in embryonic form), namely that of
collective production – or as it is often referred to in contemporary theory: coproduction or co-creation.
Documentary and the Avant-Garde
According to the manifesto presented in the title sequence from Vertov’s Man
with a Movie Camera, the film was in many ways the culmination of the director’s
overall ambition – in accordance with the notion of communism as a potentially
global project – to forge a new filmic language of pure visual communication, the
so-called Kino-Pravda (“Film Truth”), which was sometimes also referred to, or
translated as “Absolute Kinography:”
“The Man with the Movie Camera
(An Excerpt from the Diary of a Cameraman)
ATTENTION VIEWERS:
THIS FILM
Represents in Itself
AN EXPERIMENTATION IN THE CINEMATIC COMMUNICATION
Of visual events
WITHOUT THE AID OF INTERTITLES
(A Film Without Intertitles)
WITHOUT THE AID OF A SCENARIO
category at Ars Electronica in 2008 does, of course, signal that Bard to some extent
has achieved this ambition: this art/network of cinematic co-production, is – and not
least: signals that it is – a “comrade of time” (Groys 2010).
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(A Film Without a Script)
WITHOUT THE AID OF THEATER
(A Film Without Sets, Actors, etc.)
THIS EXPERIMENTAL WORK WAS MADE WITH THE INTENTION OF
CREATING A TRULY INTERNATIONAL ULTIMATE LANGUAGE OF CINEMA
ON THE BASIS OF ITS TOTAL SEPARATION FROM THE LANGUAGE OF
THEATER AND LITERATURE2
This was to be achieved by purging the film medium from all the conventions
that belonged to older, bourgeois art forms like theatre, literature, and their
related creative expressions. It was Vertov’s belief, that these creative expressions
were defining characteristics of the staged film and therefore “antithetical to the
spirit of the revolutionary times which required the cinema’s goals to be in direct
political alignment with those of the new socialist reality.”3 Instead, he sought
to replace these inherited conventions with an accentuation of new technicallybased visual means of communication, that is montage, inventive camera work,
and a variety of “special effects” made possible through this new medium.
Another important aspect, the notion of Absolute Kinography addressed, was
the problems of geography and language barriers that the internationally aspiring
communist state Soviet Russia was trying to overcome at the time. “The basis for
our program,” Vertov noted, “is a film bond between the peoples of the USSR and
the entire world based on the decoding of what actually exists” (Fore 2010, 376).
At the core of Vertov’s poetology was thus the idea that the “visual language” of
film would potentially be more unmediated, less marred by conventions, and
thus not subject to the same kind of translational problems as for instance spoken
language (not to mention the highly conventionalized bourgeois art forms).
In the context of the historical and comparative study presented here, it is
important to take into account the critical reception of Vertov’s film. When first
presented, the director’s revolutionary vision did not find a strong foothold among
the Soviet public and contrary to his intentions, it was ignored by the masses.
Furthermore, many of his contemporary peers found the film to be “inaccessible”
2
3
In the quoted manifesto for The Man with the Movie Camera, this is further
formulated as Absolute Kinography, the formalistically and ideologically challenging
development of Vertov’s newsreel productions and what was to become his last silent
film. Inherent to the term Kino-Pravda where not only the truth-seeking ambition
of the documentary movement, but also its political motivation obviously signaled
through the direct referencing of the official party newspaper.
As formulated by Vlada Petrić in his extensive study of Vertov’s film and its connection
to constructivism (Petrić 1987, 4).
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and a strictly formal experiment.4 As such, the immediate response and fate of the
film was typical for the reception of the avant-garde; Vertov’s vision of an ambitious,
universally appreciated film language was met with misconception, scepticism,
and lack of interest. Only gradually did the reception of The Man with the Movie
Camera change from the strictly technical virtuosity of the film to a more nuanced
focus on the deeper aspects of its cinematic and ideological repercussions.
In this perspective, it is interesting to note, how the work in time has been
bestowed with a canonical and defining status in connection to the development
and understanding of new digital media. Here, the central focus has mostly been
on the formalistic merits of Vertov’s work. The most influential and indeed in its
own right canonical examples of this reception is the aforementioned software
theoretician Lev Manovich’s positioning of The Man with the Movie Camera as an
avant-garde blueprint for the montage-oriented mode of expression that has defined
the development of digital media, that is, a purely visual organisation of the collected
information (Manovich 2001, 239–240). We shall return later to this perception of
Vertov’s film as a structure which is comparable to the database and vice versa.
Another aspect to consider, but one that is surprisingly often faded into the
background in the new media-historical readings of Vertov’s work, is the intrinsic
link between the technological conception presented through the film and an
immediate understanding of the documentary as genre. Since Vertov’s manifestly
declared interest was to combine these two aspects in a radical different media
expression: a new filmic language that redefines both the technical use and the
conventions of depicting reality, it seems only reasonable to also invest a critical
understanding of the remake in the reception of the original that went before its
canonisation as a benchmark for understanding the development of new media.
As pointed out by radio and film historian Erik Barnouw, Vertov’s career as a
documentary filmmaker began in 1917–19 as an editor for the Cinema Committee
in Moscow. Here his task was to assemble the incoming fragments of recordings
into meaningful newsreels, which were then distributed by “agit-trains” and
“agit-steamboats” across the country. The intention behind these films was of
course highly propagandistic, but the organising principle of gathering recordings
and creating an edited whole to be screened afterwards certainly appears as a
noticeable connection between early Vertov and Bard’s project. On an ironic
historical note, one of the defining characteristics in Bard’s ongoing collection
of amateur recordings is our mobile technological ability – and tendency – to
4
Petrić points out that Vertov’s famous contemporary Sergei Eisenstein even went so
far as to call the film trickery (Petrić 1987, 78).
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document everything we see, whereas a shortage of raw film during the revolution
almost resulted in the impossibility to make any more newsreel documentaries at
the time (Barnouw 1993, 52–55).
Concerning the other aspect of Vertov’s filmmaking, his gradually radical
experimentation with the formal structure of the documentary, this is what truly
separates the original film from the remake and as we shall discuss later, what
establishes two distinctly different filmic effects. Indeed it could be argued that
The Man with the Movie Camera, which epitomises Vertov’s groundbreaking
work with technical experimentation (at the time under Stalinist view accused for
being “formalism,” which, of course, was the fate of almost any progressive Soviet
art work of the period) is as much a film about “the magic of the medium,” as it
is a reflection about the medium itself. As so many other avant-garde ambitions,
the intentions of Vertov can be seen as a double bind. Not only does he show us
the world in a different light. But the poetic inspiration that makes this possible
also takes on unintended meaning and even threatens to implode the powerful
vision. Obvious examples could be the famous scene in which a movie theater
“magically” comes to life with the chairs folding into place through stop-motion
editing or as a whole frenetic, mechanical speed that drives most of the effects
in the film and eventually makes it almost visually “collapse” [Fig. 3–4]. This
does not necessarily signal a crisis of representation, but it places Vertov’s film
in an uncomfortable position halfway between visionary triumph and the excess
of experimentation. Either way it places him firmly in an avant-garde tradition
that desperately tries to break the boundaries of genre and define a new type
of cinematic imagery. In his seminal work on documentary film, Bill Nichols
even accentuates the ironic historical perspective on Vertov’s specific form of
essentialist cinema. He calls attention to the fact that Jean Rouch and Edgar Morin
coined the term cinéma vérité (French for Kino Pravda), as an homage to Vertov,
even though his avant-garde sensibilities precisely never motivated him to coin
the genre “documentary.” A phrase intended to signal the privileged access to the
truth through the medium of film, ended up being associated with a “delimited
sub-genre of participatory documentary” (Nichols 2001, 144).
In this perspective, one might even argue, that Vertov, despite the fierce critique
of Art-with-a-capital-A he expressed in for instance the manifesto of the opening
titles of Man With a Movie Camera, actually continues the so-called “speculative
tradition” of modern art and aesthetic thinking, as it has been coined by Jean-Marie
Schaeffer (2000), by praising the new cinematic art as yet another speculative
enterprise. Although this happens in a much more directly mediated sense than
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most aesthetic philosophers of the 18–19th centuries imagined, it nonetheless
goes to show that Vertov’s cinematic enterprise and its preoccupation with what
we might term “ocular truth” is not that alien from one of the main trajectories of
modern art, as he himself would have claimed. To this, one could also mention
his obvious inclination towards, or at least: reluctance to let go of the figure of
auteurship (cf. it’s about the man with the movie camera).
Camera, Ideology, and (Scientific) Truth
Integral to the genre-analytical focus on this challenge of the documentary form
and the use of filmic effects is the equally important socio-cultural aspect of The
Man with the Movie Camera. As pointed out by film scholar Annette Michelson,
Vertov ultimately aimed to optimize both the art of “decoding life as it is” and
the communicative transference of this flow of information onto the viewer in
the service of communist “revelation” (Michelson 1984, xiv). Following this,
it seems no coincidence that Vertov’s movie (and subsequently also Bard’s
remake) exhibits communication technologies and use of media in abundance:
both recording and playing devices as well as telephones, telegraphs, and so
on; of course also including the different settings of mass communication, most
famously the aforementioned meta-significance of the movie theatre. As an
indicative coincidence, those scenes involving communication technologies and
the specific situations related to them, are the ones that most often get remade for
Bard’s project. Yet, as we will argue below, this is, in fact, no coincidence at all.
It might instead be the logical result of Bard technologically orchestrating not all
the recordings of the camera, but all the cameras recording [Fig. 5].
Vertov’s double agenda of recording and revealing manifested itself on a number
of levels: Most notably, through – at the time – pioneering ocular intrusions into
hitherto unseen everyday, intimate locations like the bedroom, the birth bed,
and the divorce registration office – most of them “accessed” through new visual
perspectives. This reflects the socio-cultural setting of the camera and cinema
within communist Soviet society proposed by Vertov, namely, what he refers to as
an epistemologically privileged “Communist decoding of reality” (Vertov 1984,
50), thus postulating this epistemological capacity as the common denominator
of the camera and Marxism-as-science, which was the way it was perceived
in Russia at that time (Fer 1989), rather than as a political ideology competing
with other ideologies as it was later to be perceived as. Indicative of this, Vertov
himself explicitly draws parallels between the eye-opening experience of the
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complex structures in his own films and “serious essays by Engels and Lenin”
(Drobashenko 1966, 71).
These ideas are similar to the way Walter Benjamin, immediately after having
discussed Russian cinema and the technique of montage, described how the
relationship between the camera and reality was often perceived. In a number
of Benjamin’s writings on the technology of the camera and its epistemological
capabilities, we thus find numerous phrasings that emphasize the close
relationship between the camera and the new sciences of the time. Drawing
parallels to Sigmund Freud’s Psychopathology of Everyday Life (1901), which
according to the first draft of Benjamin’s so-called Artwork-essay “isolated and
made analyzable things which had heretofore floated along unnoticed in the
broad stream of perception,” the emergence of film “has brought about a similar
deepening of apperception” (Benjamin 1998). “It is through the camera,” Benjamin
notes, “that we first discover the optical unconscious, just as we discover the
instinctual unconscious through psychoanalysis” (2008a, 37). Thus, it also
becomes “another nature which speaks to the camera as compared to the eye.
‘Other’ above all in the sense that a space informed by human consciousness gives
way to a space informed by the unconscious” (2008a, 37). Similarly, Benjamin
in another passage also points to this technology-induced change in our human
apparatus of perception, although this time drawing analogies between the
surgeon and the cameraman. Whereas the painter “maintains in his work a natural
distance from reality, [...] the cinematographer penetrates deeply into its tissue”
(2008a, 35). This operation “brings to light entirely new structures of matter”
(2008a, 37), as Benjamin puts it, hereby – perhaps not consciously; it is most
likely something he picked up indirectly through Sergei Tretjakov (Fore 2006a),
whom he specifically drew on in his essay from 1943, “The Author as Producer”
(2008b), or during his visit to Russia in 1926–27 – alluding to the scientific work
on so-called “tektology” done by Aleksandr Bogdanov in the preceding decade.
We will return to this particular lineage in more detail below. Suffice to say for
now, Vertov on many levels actually seems to be the case Benjamin is thinking
of, when he claims that to “demonstrate the identity of the artistic and scientific
uses of photography which heretofore usually were separated will be one of the
revolutionary functions of the film” (1998).
Vertov’s double agenda of recording and revealing did, however, also manifest
itself by way of the camera’s playful self-exploration. In sequence after sequence,
daring and imaginative stunts are performed to illustrate the explorative relation
between the recording device and the world [Fig. 6–7]. As pointed out by
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Seth Feldman: “the engine of Vertov’s generative power is a creative dialectic
between his two central ideas – Life Caught Unawares (that is the dedication
to an unmediated recording of reality) and the Kino-eye (an equally emphatic
commitment to presenting the world through the enhanced vision of machines)”
(Feldman 2010). In this there is, of course, an obvious paradox, namely, the fact
that the (seemingly) unmediated reality revealed by the camera is fundamentally
a product of the operations of the media itself. Or as put by Benjamin: “the
presentation of reality in film [...] provides the equipment-free aspect of reality
[...], and does so precisely on the basis of the most intensive interpretation of
reality with equipment” (2008a, 35). Thus, in this sense The Man with the Movie
Camera simultaneously investigates its own artistic means and the (potential)
socio-cultural settings of the camera and cinema within communist Soviet society.
Re-Make Culture – Reimagining, Remixing, or
Remastering?
As mentioned earlier, Vertov’s fascination with the medium takes on an almost
delirious form by the ending of the film, with multitudes of superimposed images
and a greatly accelerated editing speed. It certainly appears like the “personified”
camera has some difficulties comprehending the overwhelming pulse of modern
life, or at least Vertov’s concluding presentation of the recorded footage signals a
chaotic, kaleidoscopic, and imposing overflow of visual information.
This is, however, an aspect of the film’s reception, which is not discussed
that often, and it is also left out of Manovich’s buoyant media genealogical
interpretation of Vertov’s avant-garde experiment. Yet, if this is the case, how
should it then be interpreted? Is this really Vertov’s implicit critique of the
“scientific urge” (Alifragkis and Penz 2009, 145) of contemporary Soviet society,
and in particularly the conception that the camera could intrude anywhere
and neutrally channel and “decode life as it is?” And could it perhaps even be
interpreted as a critique of the “informational ideology” in more general terms –
and if so: could it have some bearing on contemporary thought? Is this apparent
“information overload” in other words the exact moment Vertov displays the
“right tendency” (Tendenz) Benjamin would most likely have expected from him
(Benjamin 2008b, 80–81)?
However, if we, like most interpretations, simply ignore this apparent “break
down” at the end of The Man with the Movie Camera, Vertov’s cinematic project
could actually in quite meaningful ways be perceived as some kind of “pre-
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infinite bandwidth” – approached akin to the one later promoted by George
Gilder in his book on the socio-cultural, political, and economic promises of the
infinite bandwidth of the coming age of Telecosm (2000). According to this quite
early, seminal diagnosis of the Internet (in particular fiber optics as a technology
of distribution), a host of Modernity’s greatest problems and conflicts could
potentially be resolved by the emergence of infinite bandwidth Internet and the
communication power it brings along, which, among other things, would empower
anyone with sufficient information (for instance to access the archive of cultural
artifacts, knowledge, facts, etc.). But if we contrary to this understanding take
into the account the information overload – reading of the final scenes in Vertov’s
movie, that we are proposing here, it actually becomes quite paradoxical that
Guilder himself explicitly drew on Vertov’s and the Stenberg Brothers’ visuals on
the cover of his book arguing for a happier and more prosperous, information-based
future [Fig. 8–9]. Tapping this unreflected onto the “engineering iconography” of
the Constructivists (Taylor 2006, 454), the material packaging of Gilder’s utopian
techno-vision, definitely comes off as both a more ideologically and historically
predetermined remake of the experimental “machine aesthetics” that permeates
the imagery of Vertov and his contemporaries.
However, according to Lev Manovich (1999, 2001, 2013), whom Perry Bard
explicitly mentions as the key inspiration for her work, the efforts by Dziga
Vertov (and a number of like-minded avant-garde artists) did, in fact, turn out
to be the building blocks of new media and contemporary computer culture, as
we know it today, but in quite another way than Gilder envisioned. Manovich
even claims that morphologically speaking, the newness of new media is really
highly exaggerated: “the allegedly unique principles of new media can already be
found in cinema” (2001, 11). For example, the various forms of montage explored
by Vertov has, according to Manovich, played a crucial role in the invention
of overlapping windows in HCI, as well as in establishing a broader notion of
remixing the archive/database.
He already addresses the idea of modularity in his definition of the database
as “symbolic form.” Here the subdivision of the digital artifacts into objects is
defined with a specific emphasis on their accessibility (the user’s navigation
of the database), a media-specific characterisation that points towards the
exchangeability of the different elements, which comprises the whole. This leads
on to Manovich’s central interest in “the projection of the ontology of a computer
onto culture itself,” which is determined by the double logic of data structures
and algorithms, that is, the basic technical terms for organisation of information
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and the operation performed for a specific task. This relationship is further
mirrored in the database and the narrative, Manovich’s central concepts for the
understanding of new media objects and their link to earlier cultural expressions.
As he points out, in their essence, they are all databases, since every element is
part of an interchangeable structure. Thus, in Manovich’s following genealogy
between avant-garde film and digital media, his reading of Vertov’s film is primarily
focused on its merging of database and narrative in the presentation of documented
reality. One of the most notable points derived from this characterisation of The
Man with the Movie Camera as database cinema is the interpretation of media
form as filmic content. It accentuates one of the features, which makes the film
so consistently relevant for our understanding of digital media: it is a continuous
demonstration of photographic images turned into film effects through editing
and composition (Manovich 2001, 241–242). In this perspective, one could
argue that the film to a certain degree is dictated by the self-exploration of the
medium – with each new discovery of the world through the camera, another
scene is added to the collection, a collection that does indeed appear endlessly
alterable because of the ingenious and continuously accelerated editing. This is
precisely what constitutes the avant-garde positioning of the film and certainly
also what motivates Manovich’s interest in establishing Vertov as an avantgarde predecessor for both digital media and his own theory about its language
structure. As pointed out by Seth Feldman, this perspective on the avant-garde
lifts the film out of a strictly modernist understanding of documentary (according
to which Vertov’s film is perceived as the less technologically developed version
of cinema vérité) towards what he determines as a post-modern appropriation,
that is, a McLuhanesque condition, where new media is constructed out of,
and incorporates older media.5 This further results in anachronism losing its
conventional meaning, and as Feldman eloquently and interestingly puts it “The
past becomes that which can be re-mastered – and was never anything else”
(Feldman 2007, 45). In the case of Bard’s remake, the obvious examples of these
aspects of variability and automation would be how John Weir’s software daily
re-edits the film (by randomly circulating the uploaded scenes). This software
algorithm thus becomes comparable to a creative co-producer of the screened
filmic remake. Following Feldman’s radical understanding of remastering,
one could even consider these algorithmic presentations of the documentary
content from the user-generated database to be, if not the aesthetically satisfying,
5
This media-genealogy is Feldman’s interpretation of the heritage from McLuhan
found in Manovich’s definition of new, digital media (Feldman 2007, 45–46).
88
then the logical fate of Vertov’s vision. Afterall, on a material level The Global
Remake does indeed present the reconstruction of reality as something endlessly
interchangeable, and by using Vertov as its formalistic inspiration makes us
question to which degree the remaking-process is taking place in the territory of
remastering or remixing.
Speaking of remixing in the light of Bard’s work, might in the end be somewhat
misleading, because the remake begs crucial questions concerning the relationship
between the technique of montage and the “found”/pre-existing visual material;
especially given the fact that only “original” uploaded material (that is: material
which does not violate any copyright) is allowed. Where is the “re” in the “mix”?,
one might ask, since the form – that is: the temporal fitting of the different scenes
– is already given, and the database on the other hand is virtually non-existent
having fundamentally been transformed into yet another “zero-stock,” just-intime production facility. (This last aspect has, of course, changed during the now
5 year lifespan of the project.) How is the idea of the remixed archive of found
visual material sustainable at all, if the “pre-existence” and “foundness” of the
submitted material primarily seems to be illusory and to some extent a by-product
of the fact that it is predominantly recorded by mobile devices and their “proximity
to reality”-effect. This seems to make “reality itself” the archive material, rather
than the visual recordings thereof, and as such invokes the expanded concept of
remastering, much more than the deconstructive notions of the remix.
Comradely Media
Vertov’s work is permeated by a visible excitement about the technological
possibilities of this – at the time – fairly new art form. In his writings on film,
the camera even takes on anthropomorphic qualities and it is treated like an
autonomous entity: “I am kino-eye, I am a mechanical eye. I, a machine, show you
the world as only I can see it” (Michelson 1984, 60). In her (re)interpretation of
this constructivist manifesto, Bard goes so far as to determine Vertov’s statement
like the description of a cyborg, as a perceiving subject halfway between human
and machine (or perhaps within the frame of “posthumanism”) [Fig. 10].
But maybe the notion of cyborgs (or posthumanism) isn’t the only way to look
at this? Maybe Man and machine/technology/media are not fused within Man,
or within the machine for that sake, but in the world out there, that is, in a much
“flatter ontology” (DeLanda 2004). Indicative of this could be the way Vertov’s
intense preoccupation with the medium sometimes actually seems to suggest
89
that the recording device takes on the role as trigger mechanism for human
activity. This is illustrated quite literally in the opening sequence from the movie
theater, where the projection of the film seems to animate life and make the entire
orchestra awake from their exaggerated, frozen postures. This points to another
crucial theme in Vertov’s movie, namely human co-operation and co-habitation
with new machinery and technology (primarily industry, transportation, and
communication, including the camera and the all apparatuses of the movie
theatres). In more contemporary theoretical terms, particularly those of the socalled “new materialism” (inspired by Latournian Actor-Network-Theory), one
would say that all these technologies – or “things” as they are often referred
to in this school of thought in order to sublate the traditional Subject/Objectdistinction, which is always anthropocentric – exist on the same level as men
(and women) and to a large extent posses the same degree of agency; hence also
the term “actants” (rather than “actor”) applied to all the entities present in the
hybrid ontology of the social ensemblage (Latour 1996).
Once again, there is a thread back to Vertov’s time, which astoundingly seldom
has been pointed out, if ever. Within Constructivist literature of the 1920s, the term
‘factography’ was evoked to describe a double function of things, objects, or in this
case literary language. Quoting Tretjakov, Devin Fore thus notes that factography
actually “had nothing to do with the ‘naive and lying verisimilitude’ of bourgeois
realism’s aesthetic of resemblance. Rather, its interventionist, operative aesthetic
called upon the producer ‘not simply to depict life, but to create it anew in the
process’” (Fore 2006b, 101). Parallel to this, Benjamin once again actually comes
close to nailing it, claiming that “film is thus the first artistic medium which
is able to show how matter plays havoc with human beings [wie die Materien
dem Menschen mitspielt].6 It follows that films can be an excellent means of
materialistic exposition” (2008a, 47). The important addition to this should be,
that in Vertov’s case, the camera is not univocally attributed an epistemologically
privileged position somewhere outside looking in or at (and subsequently able
to display it, cf. “exposition”), but rather on the very same level of Man and
matter. The camera does not just show this entanglement; or if so, it shows by
example, namely: by performing this very kind of interaction itself. Thus, as
mentioned before, the camera itself – perhaps somewhat mystically, especially to
those of us that are not accustomed to the materialist thought of Constructivism
6
Obviously, the English translation in this particular passage is unfortunately not
sufficiently precise to capture how Benjamin seems to imagine matter and humans as
“players on the same field.”
90
– occasionally seems to animate the world. A point that of course becomes even
more pressing in contemporary media-saturated society, where ubiquitous media
to a much larger degree than previously are not just representations, but also
real objects that have actual functions within the world (Bolter and Grusin 2001,
58). In fact, one could perhaps even argue that this is also the overall theme
of Bard’s project: the new affordances of creative cooperation of digital media
technologies, and how the latter perhaps even have become co-participants in the
remastering of the material (and ideational) world.
In both Vertov and Bard – as well as in the contemporary material cultures
within which they respectively are situated and operate – machines and the
relationship between them and us, do mean a great deal. Thus, as already
indicated, a particularly interesting precursor can be found in post-revolutionary
Soviet Russia, where the political levelling of the Man/Object-relation can
be found in Russian Constructivism and its particular materialism. In 1927,
Aleksandr Rodchenko famously stated that “the light from the East is in the new
relation to the person, to woman, to things. Our things in our hands must be
equals, comrades, and not these black and mournful slaves, as they are here”
(Kiaer 2005, 1). In a vein similar to this “reist utopia” (Margolin 1997, 10)
anticipated by Rodchenko, co-constructivists El Lissitzky andand Ilya Ehrenburg
had in 1922 declared that: “to us art is the CREATION of NEW OBJECTS…. But
it should by no means be supposed that by objects we mean household articles.
Of course we see genuine art in utilitarian objects produced in factories, in the
airplane or the automobile. But we do not wish to limit the production of artists to
utilitarian objects. Any organized work – a HOUSE, a POEM or a PAINTING – is
an EXPEDIENT OBJECT (‘tselesoobraznaia veshch’) that does not isolate people
from life but helps them to organized it” (Kiaer 2005, 14). Thus, as pointed out
by Christina Kiaer, a substantial part of the statements and practices of Russian
Constructivism can actually be seen as a way of trying to elaborate a notion of
the true “comradely object of socialist modernity;” or simply: “socialist objects”
or “the object-as-comrade” (Kiaer 2005, 1); an ambition which, of course, ought
to be seen in opposition to the reified, fetishistic relationship western man had
to the capitalist commodity. Constructivism’s much debated attempts to assign
a new social function to art at the service of the Revolution – which was framed
as an “UNCOMPROMISING WAR ON ART!,” as Alexei Gan famously put it also
in 1922 (Gan 1974, 37), and which Vertov echoes in his opening titles – was
not merely about art, but even more importantly: about figuring out a new way
of approaching and handling materiality, thus attributing it a socio-economic/
91
political role “as an active, almost animate participant in social life” (Kiaer 2005,
1). Or as another Constructivist philosopher, Boris Arvatov, put it: materiality and
human practice should even be “connected like ‘coworkers’” (1997, 124), insisting
that Socialist Man should shed himself of the dualist rupture between things
and people, material and ideal, matter and spirit – all of them philosophically
founded in bourgeois ideology of private property and commodity relations –
and instead enter “into an active, creative contact with the world of Things”
(Arvatov 1997, 123; cf. also Kiaer 2005, 30).
This argument mirrors some of the general ideas in Leon Trotsky’s essays,
The Problems of Everyday Life first voiced in Pravda during the early 1920s.
According to Trotsky – who was, of course, even less focussed on the role of
art in particular – “the new generation is destined to learn [communism] in
the elements of construction, the elements of construction of everyday life”
(Trotsky 1973 [1924], 70). Here, the site of both struggle and the measure of the
(success of the) Revolution is the everyday and the active (re)construction of its
materiality, as one might frame it to get a grasp of the further trajectory this line of
thought subsequently was to have into the theories and practices of for instance
architecture (especially through the traditions of VKhUTEMAS and Bauhaus), as
well as into recent notions of the digital and remixing the archive/database and
hence perhaps even the whole present entanglement of on/offline-reality, which
is, of course, both the theme of Bard’s remake and its structural condition.
Although Devin Fore certainly overstates the point when insisting on making
Vertov (and his cinematic project) the sole protagonist of this kind of Constructivist
materialism, he still makes a valid point when he claims that it is: “the work of
the Soviet documentarian Dziga Vertov that takes us beyond a long-established
conception of the political as something coextensive with the faculty of language
itself (‘political consciousness is perhaps nonexistent outside of the logos,’ writes
Roland Barthes), and relocates the site of political activity and agency instead
within modern processes of technical making. For Vertov, politics emerges out of
matter rather than discourse” (Fore 2010, 369).
Besides its parallels to Bruno Latour’s notion of a more object-oriented
Dingpolitik, a “parliament of things“ (2005), this concept of a “politics of matter”
is quite interesting also on a more historical note. If we accept this lineage dating
back to Constructivism and its particular kind of materialism (“factography”),
which could certainly seem to be a “secret passenger” of both Manovich’s
and thus subsequently also Bard’s conceptual framework, there are also some
interesting parallels between then and now on the micro-ontological levels, as
92
we might call them in lack of better words. Here we are particularly referring to
what has now become known as the digitality of the computer (and perhaps also
its culture in more general terms (Gere 2008, 16). In fact, the trajectory leading
to the language and operations of new media could perhaps also be traced back
to Aleksandr Bogdanov’s proto-cybernetic, perhaps even proto-digital7 metascience “tektology.” This “universal organizational science” (Bogdanov 2003, 30)
was developed in the years preceding the Russian Revolution and subsequently
adopted and developed further by some of the main advocates of Constructivism
and Productivism as well as a central figure of the legendary Constructivist
journal Novyi LEF, Sergei Tretjakov (Fore 2006a). Bogdanov’s work, which he
himself described as a “uniquely holistic and uniquely monistic understanding
of the Universe” (Bogdanov 2003, 4), had as its crucial tenet that all of material
and social reality was structured in analogous ways (today we would say that
“all is digital”), thus leaving it all open to the manipulative operations of a
so-called “monistic culture of organized production,” which would include
all kinds of productive practice ranging “from literacy to electrification, from
romantic love to eugenics, from poetry to technical standardization” (Bogdanov
quoted in Fore 2006a, 12). According to Bogdanov, Man thus “has no task and
no activity, other than the organization” of the materials of technological, social,
and cultural reality, since “we, people, are organizers of nature, of ourselves, and
of our experience; [...] our practice, cognition and creativity” (Bogdanov 2003,
3). Shedding – by the interventions of new materialist theory – Bogdanov’s still
somewhat anthropocentric conception of organizing the world, the World of Man
comes to be perceived as a place than can be re-mixed, for instance by using (or
collaborating with) different material technologies.
From Passive Audiences to (Digital) Co-Producers
Following the advent of digital media and more specifically online video-sharing
websites, collective creation, and (re)structuring of the database has become
increasingly important in the production and theoretical conceptualization of
contemporary cinema and film culture in general. It goes without saying that
this is by no means irrelevant to Bard’s project; especially given the fact that it
is this specific trajectory – exemplified by Vertov read by and through Manovich
7
Charlie Gere (2008) has proposed the notion of digital culture as a cultural logic based
on discrete elements that actually precedes digital technology/media, but makes no
mention of Bogdanov’s “tektology.” Perhaps he should have.
93
– that has served as Bard’s key inspiration, which makes it plausible to perceive
Bard’s project as an attempt to translate and reframe Vertov’s project within a
new media ecology.
Yet, as already argued, it is not just Vertov’s particular project that is actualized
in Bard’s remake. Bard’s work also seems to invoke or actualize – although not
quite as explicitly as the reference to Vertov – a number of more general, sociostructural, and socio-economic aspirations of some of Vertov’s contemporaries
among the Russian Constructivists, especially the so-called Productivists’
ambition of an overall transformation of the process of work, and in extension of
this turning the ordinary citizen-workers into creative co-producers (Bann 1974,
Andrews and Kalinovska 1975, Lodder 1983, Gough 2005). However, this is not, as
imagined then, achieved simply by declaring “uncompromising war on art” (Gan
1974 [1922], 37) and moving “from the easel to the machine” (Tarabukin 1923) or
“into production” (Brik 1974 [1923]), hereby turning factories into “instruments
of collective creativity” (Gough 2005, 155), but rather through the use of the
‘superlative objects’ (Barthes 1972, 88) of our contemporary society, namely: new
digital media ‘technologies of creative cooperation’ (Saveri, Rheingold and Vian
2005) at the heart of the ‘convergence culture’ (Jenkins 2006) of Web 2.0.
Although this trajectory is not part of Bard’s explicit reference to Manovich’s
reading of Vertov (from The Language of New Media), it does, however,
inadvertently(?) echo the main tenets of Manovich’s seminal essay “Avant-Garde
as Software” (1999) and especially his recent book Software Takes Command
(2013), which to a much higher degree takes on the socio-political dimensions
of new digital media as the (supposed) realization of the societal aspirations of
Russian avant-garde movements as well. As its title, The Language of New Media,
also suggests, Manovich’s book on cinema – in explicit contrast to the focus on
sociological, economic, and political dimensions in other contemporary studies
(cf. 2001, 12) – almost singularly focussed on the language-aspects of new media.
In this sense, Manovich’s way of looking at the relationship between different
media like cinema/film and digital media in The Language of New Media almost
exclusively adheres to the ‘media grammar literacy’ (or ‘media as language’metaphor) described by Joshua Meyrowitz in his essay on what kind of ‘media
literacies’ we use (or metaphors we apply), when we conceptualize our objects of
study within media studies (Meyrowitz 1998, 99–103). To a large extent, this is
also the kind of literacy that has prevailed in the reception history of Vertov as an
auteur primarily experimenting with the formal language of cinema (for instance
with reference to his intention of creating an ‘Absolute Kinography’).
94
In contrast, the essence of Bard’s project can best be grasped if we make a shift
in perspective (or applied ‘media literacy’) towards the notion of media as ‘setting
or environment,’ in which the focus – in extension of how media is analyzed in
Marshall McLuhan’s ‘medium theory’ – is primarily on “how the nature of the
medium shapes key aspects of the communication on both the micro-, singlesituation level and on the macro-, societal level” (Meyrowitz 1998, 103).8 When
thinking in terms of ‘medium literacy,’ as Meyrowitz simply refers to it, the
social, communicative setting is thus regarded as something that is “fostered by
a medium” (Meyrowitz 1998, 106). It is in extension of this line of thought (or
literacy) we should thus see Bard’s project as principally focussed on what kinds
of communicative human interactions new digital media foster or afford, what
kind of socio-structural shifts occur, etc.; for instance in relation to previously
much criticized passive media consumption versus so-called produsage (Bruns
2008), where co-producers actively and creatively participate in the digital remix
culture and where amateurs increasingly outperform professionals (Manovich
2013). Here, the remix has become default, in contrast to previously (cf. Barthes
1977, Eco 1989, etc.) where remixing, quoting, and so on was an aesthetic option
among other options. Now, remix has become an overarching metaphor for a
number of media-related, but not necessarily media-specific operations, which
the person formerly known as the passive recipient of mass media content did
not possess the means to achieve.
In this, we once again encounter an (implicit?) legacy from Benjamin’s
writings. In his short essay, The Newspaper, Walter Benjamin emphasised that in
the Soviet Russian Press of his time “the indiscriminate assimilation of facts goes
[hand in hand with] the equally indiscriminate assimilation of readers, who are
instantly elevated to the level of collaborators. […] The reader is at all times ready
to become a writer” (Benjamin 2008c, 359). In the same vein Benjamin (with
reference to Tretjakov) “distinguishes the operating writer from the informing
writer. His mission is not to report but to struggle; not to play the spectator
but to intervene actively” (2008b, 81). And the techno-social transformation
required in order to achieve this would be what Bertolt Brecht referred to as the
‘functional transformation’ [Umfunktionierung] of “the forms and instruments of
production,” which would be the equivalent of “freeing the means of production
and serving the class struggle” (Benjamin 2008b, 85).
8
According to Meyrowitz, analysis of media in this perspective “also involves
consideration of how political, economic, and social forces encourage the
development of some media over others [as well as] why particular forms of various
media evolved” (1998, 106).
95
This prognosticated transition points towards the contemporarily often hailed
transformation of the passive masses of the audience (of cinema, literature, theatre
etc.) into active, creative co-producers, that could – like in the case of Bard’s
project – become part of the crowdsourced masses contributing to “cinema made
by all” (Feldman 2010). The contemporary equivalence to Benjamin’s vision of the
progressive media politics of Soviet Russia is in other words astoundingly akin
to the participatory, co-creative, remix/convergence culture so often heralded
the last decade, in which the audience or the consumer becomes the creative
co-producer, the prosumer, and so on, all facilitated by the personal computer
as a tool of individual (co-)creative freedom. In this sense, Bard’s project does,
in Manovich’s terminology, quite perfectly fit the cultural logic of new media:
especially on account of its multi-authorial and meta-media characteristics. Or
perhaps, one could argue, it fits the logic of new media a bit too well?
Documentary Turn: from Documented Life to
Documentation of the Medium
Bard’s project can be seen as a democratization of cultural production in quite a
literal sense. But it is also – firstly and initially, one might say – conditioned by
the kind of “semiotic democracy” John Fiske once pointed out (1987, 235). Bard’s
project is dependent on different users’/co-producers’ individual interpretations of
a cinematic work of art, which on the one hand has had a rather narrow or “fixed”
reception history, but which on the other hand stands out as a quite enigmatic,
“open” work. By this we are referring to the fact that in Bard’s project it is very much
the user’s reinterpretation of each scene that comprises the film. If we take a look
at the aesthetic approach that defines the work, it balances between experimental
examination and what could be critically termed a cyber-enthusiastic play with
Vertov’s 1929 constellation of documented life. That is, a collective homage to the
work of a visionary director made possible through net-based collaboration.
It should also be noted that the type of exchange taking place in Man With
a Movie Camera – The Global Remake is comparable with a juried exhibition:
different contributors might be uploading the material, but ultimately it is Perry
Bard who functions as the facilitator and author of the footage that is featured.
When she first envisioned the project, the idea was to produce a multi-authorial
version of the historical city symphony film genre that Vertov’s work is part of.
Selected artists and filmmakers were to create their personal remakes of the
film based in the cities they live in. Bard soon changed this to a concept, which
96
encompassed a broader and less control-oriented understanding of the net-based
participatory film. Now she made it possible for everyone interested in the project
to contribute with their own versions of the specific scenes from Vertov’s original.
This procedure of cutting up the film and outsourcing its separate sequences did
confront Bard with a number of considerations and a difficult decision: “When
I logged the movie, I got to know it very well and I got very attached to a lot
of shots and scenes. So, every time I got an upload I had a very strong feeling
about whether it made sense or not. I realised I had too many expectations. I had
to let go in order to allow other people to participate. Letting go proved to be
very difficult. This is where a participatory project can fail; if you control it too
much it can’t be interesting to others. I realised that what I had achieved with
this, but also previous projects, is to create a platform for participation and then
the participation has to be individual. There is a structure within which one
can participate but if I were to control it beyond that, I would be asking for an
exact remake” (Alifragkis and Bard 2008, 157). Following this, one could argue,
that she almost does the direct opposite of Vertov – she activates all the cameras
out there, instead of making the camera “activate” the world. This is partly due
to the fact that The Global Remake is not primarily about the direct indexical
relationship between documented reality and the camera, but rather about the
relationship between men, women, and their cameras and the digital film culture
facilitated through user-interfaces, coded algorithms, and so on.
Because what characterizes most of the new material is a formalistic affinity with
the sequences that made up the original film and functions as a kind of prefigured
template. Most of the contributors tend to repeat the thematic content of each
clip with an updated version of the specific settings and a camera angle which
mimics or comments Vertov’s compositions (Feldman 2010). Tripod cameras are
transformed into mobile phones; trolleys traversing the city are replaced with
cars and so on. This places Bard’s project halfway between the video-archive
and the documentary film. Images that seemed like a modern day revelation in
Vertov’s frame of reference are now – to put it bluntly – translated into everyday
recordings of contemporary life, often with crude, poorly-composed, or random
snapshots as the result [Fig. 11]. This makes the experience comparable with
Thomas Elsaesser description of traversing the YouTube database: a tightrope
walk between epiphany and entropy (Elsaesser 2008, 30). In this case a question
of spotting the inventive or exciting moment in the reinterpretations of Vertov’s
scenes, while enduring a majority of formulaic clips showcasing the visual
stereotypes of mobile digital media.
97
In this sense, it is not without consequence – especially on the aesthetic level
– that the aim of Bard’s art project seems less an attempt to forge a cinematic
artwork in its own right, let alone a whole new visual language, than an attempt
to orchestrate – or perhaps merely demonstrate? – the new social organization
of the production of art under the banners of “remix,” “participation,” “social
production,” “collaborative creativity,” and so on. This is, in fact, also recognized
by Bard herself, when answering whether the remake will ever be screened alone,
she replies that the “remake with the film looks like an experiment. The remake
by itself looks like a very bad independent film. [...] People from the film world
want all of the formal sophistication that Vertov put into his movie. That will
never happen…” (Alifragkis and Bard 2008, 158). Instead, she insists that the
project should be perceived – and judged – not as a film, but as an exploration
of the digital community.
If Bard’s project – as suggested by Feldman – can be perceived as a realisation
of Vertov’s plan for making cinema by the assistance of an army of kinoks, which
was never realised by Vertov himself, but which on a technological level has now
become much more feasible, it is at the same time a realisation that is not quite
what Vertov might have expected. In Vertov’s view, this army of kinoks, who
“would make, edit, distribute and exhibit film in a continuous stream” (Feldman
2010, 2), were certainly intended to be trained and skilled in the art of capturing
reality on film, on par with himself, film editor and future wife Elisaveta Svilova
and his younger brother and cameraman Michael Kaufman. The kinoks actually
consisted of young, ambitious cameramen, editors, technicians, and animators.
Vertov, Kaufman, and Svivola functioned as the organising counsel for this larger
group, “the higher organ of the kinoks” (visshii organ kinokov), whose primary
function was to act as the official spokespersons for the production policy of the
cooperative. In a contemporary perspective, the organisation and articulation of
the kinoks certainly has a militaristic ring, and Vertov himself also described the
members as “an international movement that marched in step with the world
proletarian revolution” (quoted by Drobashenko 1966, 81). In this context, this
declaration is interesting, not so much because of how it was formulated, but
more because of the global ambition bestowed upon the creation of this new
documentary film language.9 Bard’s contemporary army of cameramen primarily
equipped with various mobile gadgets, that technologically speaking makes it
9
Both Petric and Michelson calls attention to the fact that Vertov, Aleksei Gan, and
Vladimir Mayakovsky where among the only soviet artists to explicitly express this
cosmopolitan desire that were later to be deemed as treachery by the Communist Party.
98
possible for anyone to participate in creation of cinema, generally seem to be
untrained/unskilled amateurs, apparently often university students in media
production classes (“kinoks with a fixed curriculum”). This definitely does not
sit well with the idea that digitally facilitated collaborative amateur production
within remix culture so often presented especially in the mid-2000s, for instance
Lev Manovich own suggestion that amateur production within remix culture
often seems to “represents the most innovative cultural production done today”
from his 2008 online version of Software Takes Command (2013); a claim that
has now – wisely – been elicited from the official version of the book.
The positioning of the work between avant-garde and aesthetic sensibilities
represented by the participatory and film technical aspects, respectively, seems
crucial for understanding the media historical impact and the function of the
remake. Considering that although Vertov’s movie – especially if you consult most
of its paratext – seems preoccupied with the recording of life “as it is,” one should
not ignore, nor underestimate the aesthetic cinematic dimensions of this movie.
It is certainly no unfiltered decoding of reality; the celebratory aesthetics of The
Man with the Movie Camera goes way beyond experimentation with decoding and
revelation alone. This is evident in direct comparison with the remake; which is
an affordance, Bard’s setup obviously facilitates quite well. What becomes clear
is the degree to which the new, user-generated scenes are (1) less aesthetically
challenging than those of Vertov (that is: less visually composed, less genuinely
experimental, less innovative, and so on); and (2) in many ways, more preoccupied
with establishing a technologically-dictated “aesthetics of recording reality” than
actually happens to be the case with Vertov. This is mainly due to the frequent
use of and explicit reference to mobile recording devices in combination with
the just mentioned “sloppy” aesthetic, which – when adding to the mix the
already dominating conventions concerning mobile media-recording – produces
an unmistakable realism effect. This means that when looking at Bard’s remake,
we come to realise, what we are actually looking at is a reality effect-driven
reenactment of what now stands out as a documentary that is much more highly
aestheticised than it pretends to be (as proclaimed in Vertov’s original opening
manifesto) or is often made out to be. In the perspective of collaborative mediapractice, it could be argued that while Vertov’s original shows us the consequences
of the enchantment of film, Bard’s “contemporary kinoks” through their collective
actions display the disenchantment of the very same medium. Two very different
lessons that might be equally important to remember.
99
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102
List of Figures
Figures 1–2. Examples of the interface in Perry Bard’s Man With a Movie
Camera: The Global Remake.
103
Figures 3–4. Visual outtakes from the highly accelerated montage in the end
sequence of Vertov’s film.
104
Figure 5. Example of the ubiquitous presence of mobile phone as camera in
Bard’s remake.
Figures 6–7. Vertov’s brother and fellow kinok Mikhail Kaufman performing
daring stunts simultaneously in front and behind the camera in the role of The
Man with the Movie Camera.
105
Figures 8–9. The cover of Gilder’s book and the original film poster by the
Stenberg brothers.
106
Figure 10. The iconic closing shot of Vertov’s film that superimposes the
human eye with the camera lens.
Figure 11. One example of the straightforward “image translations” that takes
place in many of the uploaded videos, which comprises Bard’s remake.

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